The Antithesis of a Consolation Prize
by xcara
Summary: "In the context of a relationship, a consolation prize is the second choice; the person you're with when, for whatever reason, you're not with the person you truly want to be with..."
1. I

This has two parts...I'll post the second part as soon as I'm finished with it.

The beginning takes place about three months after Addison arrived in Seattle. (Yes, she stayed with Mark in NY. No, he didn't get her pregnant).

She and Derek didn't try to work on their marriage. In fact, they barely interacted with each other. Thus, she didn't live in the trailer and all that jazz. She sort of worked at SGH; i.e., did a few cases/helped out in the ob/gyn/neonatal departments per Richard's request.

Oh, and Mark showed up a while after Addison, and he got involved with Callie; they're not together. (but this is irrelevant until the second part)

Enjoy! :)

* * *

 **July 3rd, 2005**

You've been in the Archfield's lobby longer than you're willing to admit—lingering, aimlessly circling around. You know she's waiting for you, but putting off the inevitable seems fitting at the moment. Once again, you wonder what provoked you to suggest meeting her there: The lingering doubt you're attempting to assuage is most likely the culprit.

Your feet all but glide across the intricate marble flooring until you come to a halt, now face to face with an elevator that seems far less appealing than normal. It's probably because that one—simple and inconsequential as it may seem—will aid in leading you to the place where you will essentially _end_ a chapter of your life.

 **FIRST**

The elevator pings and your eyes dart to the neon red "1" indicating the first floor. You're not one for puerile signs, but given your current situation, you can't help but relate it to her.

The first time you saw her: head held high, cerulean eyes glistening, scarlet hair flowing; in essence, a ray of sunshine as she made her way across the cold white room. As fate, destiny, luck, divine intervention (or whatever you prefer to call it) would have it, Dr. Bedford (bless his heart) assigned her as your lab partner, unknowingly instigating the beginning of Addison-and-Derek.

A sea of firsts flow through your mind, the perfect amalgamation of bitter and sweet. Like the first time you brought her home, introduced her to your family. Your sisters adored her, which certainly came as no surprise to you. But your mother...

"She's not right for you." She told you. Of course that's the euphemised version, her words were far more malicious.

The more you think about it, the more you begin to believe that she was right about your relationship with Addison. Ending it before it went too far, before you loved her too much, before she loved you too much, would have saved both of you a world of heartache.

 **SIXTH**

Your eyes focus on the silvery walls of the elevator and occasionally skim the man in the corner who entered on the third floor, unwittingly ruining your...space.

"Are you okay?" He asked (in a way that conveyed genuine concern) a moment or two after entering.

For a second, you wondered if he _knew_.

"Never better." You professed. Your demeanour contradicted your words.

You steal another glance at him only to be met with an all-knowing smile. It's then you decide that you're not particularly fond of him.

The assumed venerable wisdom etched into the lines of his face and his snowy brows; he seems to be aware of all your secrets.

He shuffles his feet as the elevator doors open, and you exhale in relief because you think he's about to leave. However, the feeling is short-lived. In addition to him staying, four more people enter.

 **ELEVENTH**

You're almost there, the sixteenth floor is your destination, and you still don't feel prepared.

Being in that elevator offers no consolation. The man is still looking at you pointedly, and two of the people who entered on the eighth floor—who you assume are a couple, given their ridiculously close proximity to each other—deemed it appropriate to stand directly in front of you.

 **12**... **13**... **14**...

Each ping makes your heart beat a little faster and anxiety courses through your veins.

This is nothing like the first time you saw her, spoke to her—no; this situation, laced with trepidation and melancholy, is twice removed from it.

The perennial curiosity and underlying excitement and captivation that that day held is non-existent.

 **SIXTEENTH**

Your feet sink into plush burgundy carpeting upon making your departure. Sliding your hands into the warmth and comfort of your pants pockets, you move through the serenely lit corridors with ease, knowing exactly where you're going, having been there before under similar circumstances.

 **1675** —three raps against the steel-plated door, a surge of anxiety, and a thirty-second wait, then she appears.

She greets you with what appears to be a smile and you reciprocate it.

Her attire catches you by surprise, you assumed she would be all dressed up. But she is not clad in a variant of what you dubbed her suit of armour: silk blouse, pencil skirt, dangerously high stilettos (although the absence of stilettos is comprehensible).

Instead, she has on sandy-grey sweatpants with 'Atlantic Wellness NY' embroidered across the top left thigh and a navy blue tank top, causing you to feel slightly overdressed in your white dress shirt and silky black pants.

"I thought you got caught up at the hospital or something." She says, stepping aside to allow you entry, and you're not sure what to make of the tone of her voice.

"No, I just needed to stop somewhere before I came here." You lie, well aware that your tardiness is due to stalling in the lobby.

She tentatively nods her head, and you could be wrong, but you immediately think that she thinks your 'stop' was Meredith related. Before you can craft another sentence to rebut that thought, she continues:

"Do you want a drink?"

"Sure." You respond.

The blond wood table adjacent to the television draws your attention. There's a chair on each end and _the papers_ are neatly laid out with a pen conveniently beside them. Ignoring the obvious setup, you situate yourself on the edge of her bed.

When Addison turns and discovers your new position, she raises her brow in that way she does, and a disapproving frown is in plain view, but she refrains from saying anything. Instead, she hands you a tumbler of scotch and sits adjacent to you.

You lead her in conversation, expertly evading the supposed sole purpose of your visit.

You're about ten minutes in when she begins to say something about the house in the Hamptons, but her words don't fully register, you're too busy admiring the way the light casts an ethereal orange-hued glow above her head.

Truthfully, you can't remember the last time you _really_ looked at her—the way you are now. Hostile glances while walking down hallways, and generally, keeping a wary eye on her whenever she's in proximity to you seems to be your new Seattle norm. She valorously waltzed in and turned your world upside down... _again_ _:_ To say that you were disconcerted when she arrived would be a gross understatement.

Underneath the delicately woven surface of quietude, there's something lingering in that room that you are not fully aware of. Unfortunately, it makes itself apparent before you are given the opportunity to decipher it.

When she pauses and stares at you intently, you respond accordingly. But your intercourse does not continue the way you expect it to.

She stands abruptly, and you're not sure if something you said is responsible for the sudden shift, but it's clear to you that she's upset.

"Addison, what's wrong?" You ask, following her across the room.

 _Infidelity. You left. You've been avoiding your wife for weeks. You have a girlfriend..._

Your question is almost laughable because inarguably, there are so many things amiss. But in your defence, you're referencing what just occurred.

"Nothing. Just sign the papers, Derek."

Rather than accepting the silver pen she's holding toward you, you simultaneously stare at it, and her, offensively.

Her hand falls to her side and she sighs resignedly.

"What's the point?" She whispers.

You crease your brows in confusion.

"What's the point of this, of you coming here?" She clarifies emphatically, "We work at the same hospital, we could have easily done it there, or I could've had them sent to your trailer after I signed...I–we had a lot of options, Derek. So why here? It's so–it doesn't make sense. Why do you _always_ have to make things more complicated; why did you want to meet me here?"

When she cornered you at the nurses' station a few days ago and handed you divorce papers, you didn't question why she hadn't signed, and a few days later when you returned them to her–unsigned–reasoning that 'it'd probably be best if we went over them together' though you already had, she didn't argue, so why blame you for complicating things when she's equally culpable? How simple would it have been to sign the papers right then and there, get it over with?

You fold your arms across your chest defensively although you can sense that those questions veil what she truly wants to ask.

"Why did you agree?" You counter.

She mimics your stance and stares at you, eyes ablaze. (The way she always does when you say something that aggravates her.)

With little thought, you step closer to her, leaving a modicum of space between you.

You ask her again, only this time, it's not defensive or retaliatory,

"Why did you agree?"

 _I have doubts. I wanted to see you. I miss you..._

She lowers her arms to her side and averts her eyes from yours in favour of the beige fluff beneath her bare feet. You, insistent on a response, tilt her head up using your thumb and forefinger.

Blue-green orbs swimming in pools of unshed tears are what you're met with when she finally re-establishes eye contact, and you can't help but acknowledge the guilt that is threatening to consume you. You've been so caught up in what this whole ordeal – preceding and succeeding the moment you found her in bed with your best friend – has done to you, that you really haven't given much thought to the way everything has affected her.

She shakily parts her lips and inhales sharply before answering,

 _I have doubts. I wanted to see you. I miss you..._

"It doesn't matter."

The fact that she's unwillingly to answer definitively is unsurprising. How forthcoming do you expect her to be after acting as though she was invisible...dangling your new lover in front of her face?

"Of course it matters."

"Since when, Derek?" She scoffs, "When did what I want or think start to matter?"

"You always—I never—"

"Addison..." You finally settle on, as she marches pass you to the opposite end of the table.

You're both too wound up in your own emotions to think clearly, act reasonably...

Ignoring you, she flips through the papers and begins to sign and your heart beats a little faster because you don't perceive an instance of hesitation.

"Addie..." This time, it's more of a plea.

"What?" She yells, startling both of you, "Just sign the damn papers and leave, this time I'm asking; I _want_ you to go."

You're stunned silent. The implications of her last words don't go unnoticed by you. When you met her, fell in love with her, proposed to her, said your vows and placed a ring on her finger; ending up in this situation did not seem probable.

Desertion, complacency, adultery and divorce were mere words to you regarding Addison.

Regrettably, the passionate kiss you used to place on your wife's lips when you walked in the door from work morphed into a peck on the cheek that eventually morphed into – on some days – an inability to even look up from your email inbox, and somehow, Mark and Meredith ended up between you. Indubitably, the pertinent details are much more complex; that version doesn't even scratch the surface of what conspired to bring both of you to this point.

After taking a final look at the woman with whom you expected to spend the rest of your life with, you sign, albeit with reticence and dejection.

A plethora of words left unspoken, a shameful hoard of things left undone.

You deliberately set the pen on the table loud enough for her to hear, and you vaguely register her look in your direction. Without a word, or glance, you leave.

* * *

About my other story...

I do intend to finish it, it's just...my muse ran off and I'm waiting for her to return.

Anyway, reviews are warmly welcomed and thoroughly appreciated. :)


	2. II

Fact: I hate this, I really do.

It's not what I had originally planned—far from it, actually. But it's what I ended up with.

I've had this hanging around for a while. Truthfully, I considered forgetting this story altogether, but here it is….

* * *

 **October 28** **th** **, 2006**

Change: an amalgam of events that have kept you on your toes lately. You cling to hope like water droplets on glass windows, believing that somehow – this time – you'll be spared the ineluctable fall that seemingly follows fortuity.

Days converged into weeks and weeks converged into months. Before you knew it, you were whisked into the chaotic autumn of Seattle, amidst the unpredictable.

"It's been too long since they've said anything." Mark says, hand winding worriedly through his thick, dark locks. He paces audibly, still void of any form of composure since being kicked out of the OR, and subsequently, the gallery.

Your attention is split between trying to keep him level-headed and keeping an eye out for _her_.

So much has happened since last winter, since your uncontested divorce…

You and Mark managed to gingerly reclaim a diminutive fraction of what your friendship used to be. He was there for you, after the dissolution of your marriage; and with you, after she left. You, of course, asserted that you were fine, making it clear that Mark and his aid were neither needed nor wanted. But Mark, being Mark, with all his self-assurance, insisted that you needed him.

Now here you are, seemingly returning the favour.

"Preston's in there, so is Webber and Bailey." You remind him, guiding his distraught form towards a chair and motioning for him to sit down.

"She's in there with the best, they'll do everything they can to make sure she's okay…..Both of them will be okay."

Mark nods imperceptibly and you slink your body into the uncomfortable chair beside him, grateful for the opportunity to sit, if only for a little while.

You—all of you, were in the ER when they brought her in. When you took in her appearance—misshapen limbs, purplish bruises and jagged abrasions on her face, raven hair saturated with blood plastered atop her head—your heart sank. Being a surgeon has never been easy, so being presented with the task of treating one of your own exacerbated the grief and pressure that came with the job. And unbeknownst to anyone in Seattle besides yourself, Callie's accident hits a little too close to home.

Mark begins a random conversation about David Eckstein and you engage him because he seems far more relaxed than he was a few minutes ago, and you're willing to do or say just about anything for him to remain that way.

Casual, sometimes insightful conversation with him has sort of become your thing lately. When proposing advice, he always knew better than to simply tell you something, but rather imply it. Mark—seemingly filled with surprising sagacity since the discovery of his impending fatherhood—played, as much as you'd hate to admit it, an integral role in helping you shed light on your past state of affairs.

"He went 8 for 22 with 4 RBI and scored 3 runs in the series including going 4-for-5 with…."

When Mark's voice trails off, you don't question why. You assume it's because his line of sight has finally followed yours. Truthfully, he lost you at "World Series MVP". At that point, you had already identified her treading in your direction.

You stand before he does, and by the time she's in front of you, you realise that she's keen on avoiding direct eye contact with you.

"I'm so sorry," She says while embracing Mark, "I'll do everything I can to ensure the best outcome for both of them."

You meticulously observe her, trying to perceive any physical changes since the last time you've seen her. Addison being in L.A entails you feeling like you're missing out on everything.

Technically you're not, but you're already too attached to the idea of what could be to think otherwise: Curly auburn tendrils and curious pale-blue eyes flooded your thoughts the moment she told you.

"I'll go with you to scrub in." You offer after Mark relays his appreciation for her coming.

The way her face pales avers that she is opposed to the prospect of being alone with you, but you ignore it because simply wanting to be alone with Addison and _him_ or _her_ (you like to think of _it_ that way) outweighs everything else.

You walk together—well she leads, and you follow. Richard has obviously filled her in on everything, she knows where she's going, and she knows what she has to do. She's focused, always has been.

The room is silent, save for the sound of running water as she lathers her hands with antibacterial soap.

You observe your surroundings to ensure that you're alone, then you clear your throat before attempting to sever the silence with words.

"How have you been feeling lately?" She doesn't say anything, but you do notice the way she closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

You've heard so many stories from your mother and sisters that it's pretty much impossible for you to not imagine what it would be like for her.

You carry on resolutely, restraining the questions, it's more like brazen statements rolling off the tip of your tongue again, and again, until:

"Derek," She cuts in, "Just…not now, okay?"

"Okay." You agree, although you're a little bemused by the tone of her voice.

You reason that she probably doesn't want you making this moment about her when the focus should be Callie.

You continue to silently watch her until she slips into the OR, then you leave, having already done your part earlier.

"Dr. Shepherd," You hear, and you turn to face the familiar voice.

"He's in on-call room 4." She informs, discerning that you standing in the hallway surveying the vicinity probably meant you're looking for Mark.

"Thank you, Dr. Grey." You say with a smile before heading in that direction.

* * *

You're not exactly sure how much time has passed since you reclined on an unusually comfortable on-call room bed foolishly thinking you would have been able to stay awake, but it must have been a few hours.

When you saunter out of the room, you spot Burke conversing with Cristina and interpret that to mean Callie is out of surgery. He confirms your supposition and also adds that she's in recovery where "Sloan's keeping guard, waiting for her to wake up."

After checking on Callie, and by proxy, Mark, you go in search of your ex-wife. Your day—week, has been far from uneventful and you want nothing more than to collapse onto your bed and sleep for as long as time permits. But Addison is in town and you've barely seen her for nearly a month; therefore, you'll gladly relinquish rest since the opportunity to be with her has presented itself.

Pinpointing when it started— _it_ being what's going on between you and your ex-wife (neither of you have exactly placed a label on it)—is quite easy.

You spotted her while passing the NICU; you were certain your eyes were deceiving you, until:

" _Derek…" she said cautiously._

 _You, being as surprised as you were, simply returned her name as a response._

" _Congenital lobar emphysema…Richard didn't tell you I was coming?" She offered, answering your unspoken question as to what she was doing there._

" _No, I had no idea." You said, rubbing the back of your neck tensely. Why she made you so nervous in that moment, you could not explain._

" _How have you been?"_

" _Good—great actually. You?"_

 _Maybe if her tone had been a little less sugary, that would have been believable._

" _I've been better." You admitted, stepping a little closer to her._

Perhaps it would have been best for both of you if that had been the last time you had seen each other that day or week, but it wasn't.

" _Haven't I seen you around here before?" You said, leaning your body against the bar counter and turning to face her._

 _She raised her head and smiled brightly at you, and you found it hard to contain the joy you felt from still being able to make her smile like that._

" _No, I don't think so." She said seriously._

" _I'm certain," You insisted, "There's no way I could forget seeing someone as beautiful as you. Mind if I sit here?" You motioned to the vacant stool in front of you._

" _No, not at all."_

 _You made yourself comfortable beside her and ordered three shots of whatever it was that Joe deemed the house special, downing them much faster than you probably should have. The bar was neither full nor empty, with the usual Seattle Grace crew clustered at the tables lining the walls._

" _Rough day?" She asked, taking in your empty shot glasses._

" _Rough year."_

" _Yeah…" She sighed, "Me too."_

" _See, we already have something in common. So, what was it about this year that made it particularly rough?_

 _She arched a brow at that, "I'm not about to disclose the personal details of my life to you, I hardly know you," she said._

 _You chuckled._

" _Doesn't that have a certain charm to it, though?"_

" _Not really."_

" _Well, how 'bout you start by telling me a little about yourself." You said with a smile._

 _Whether it had been the alcohol coursing through your veins or the sheer longing you had been trying to contain long before her arrival, you found yourself inching closer and closer to her as the night progressed (the façade long forgotten, neither of you possessing the will to keep it up)._

" _You okay?" You asked softly, not seeing the need to elaborate because you were certain she knew exactly what you meant._

" _Honestly?"_

 _You nodded._

" _No." She confessed._

 _You placed your hand over hers in silent agreement._

Trying to mask the hurt with saccharine kisses originating from lips that naively worshipped you simply would not—could not suffice, you put an end to that months ago.

 _With the woman you were once able to call your wife before you again, you were well aware of how dangerous saying how you felt would be, but not saying anything at all would have been worse—your last encounter can attest to that._

" _I should go." She whispered after your lips brushed against hers._

 _You stood as she did and before allowing her to walk away you stated:_

" _I miss you, Addie."_

 _She smiled sadly, "I don't believe you," she said._

" _I don't blame you."_

 _She slung her bag across her shoulder and walked a small distance ahead before turning around and responding with:_

" _I miss you too."_

She would probably say that going back to her hotel was all your idea—it was pretty unanimous.

You spent two surreptitious weeks together and that was supposed to be it. She would leave and everything would continue on as it did before.

But the situation snowballed into something neither of you were willing to put a stop to when she returned more frequently than warranted—flying in for surgeries that someone already in Seattle doubtlessly had the skill and competence to perform. And you—finding yourself in LA under the guise of Sam and Naomi, as if you really gave a damn about catching up with old friends.

* * *

After fruitlessly searching the NICU, nursery, cafeteria and getting the runaround from Karev, Richard finally told you that she left for the day.

You're standing outside 1215 at the Archfield, waiting for her to let you in. Considering the length of time you've been knocking, you're beginning to think that she's not there.

But that thought is suspended the moment she appears wrapped in a plush white robe, wet hair falling heavily across her shoulders.

"I called," You say, "You didn't answer." You're not only referencing today.

She fidgets with the belt of her robe instead of offering an explanation. You're not exactly sure how she expects you to figure out what's wrong if she's not willing to talk to you. Everything seemed fine up until a few days ago, and now you can't help wondering if you did or said something that prompted her to shy away from you.

"Do you want me to go?" You ask, judging by her behaviour today you're quite certain the answer is yes.

"No." She says almost inaudibly, opening the door wider so you can step inside.

She ambles toward the bathroom leaving you standing against the door.

"Addie…"

"I'll only be a minute." She says before slipping in and closing the door behind her.

You make your way to the brown leather couch lining the side of the room.

When she returns, she's clad in black satin pyjamas that you don't recall seeing before. She goes to sit on the bed, but you pat the empty space beside you and she obliges.

"I haven't heard from you in a week." You say softly.

"I'm sorry," She exhales, "I just…I needed some time."

Her eyes finally make direct contact with yours for the first time today.

"You want to move to LA…" She repeats what you told her a few days ago.

You scoot closer to her and lightly run the back of your hand across her cheek.

"I do…" You begin, "…and you're afraid we're going to mess up like we did the first time. And I can't say that that thought hasn't crossed my mind before. But Addie, I know what not having you in my life is like, it's not something I want to experience again. I—we've been through enough, learnt enough, and are determined enough to not make the same mistakes again, and this time, you and I won't be the only ones involved," Your hand caresses her lower stomach, "I consider that extra motivation."

She lays her head on your shoulder and her damp hair tickles your neck causing you to shiver slightly.

"I'm terrified of messing up again," She confirms, "I want this more than anything…you caught me off guard when you brought up moving to LA, it's not exactly something we've discussed before…I just, I don't want you to make that decision just because of me. You love it here."

"I _like_ it here," You correct. "But there's nothing keeping me here. I'm not only making the decision for you, Addison, I'm ready to start over with you, whether it be in LA or somewhere else. I love you, and I want to be with you."

You lean in and kiss her lips gently. She smiles brilliantly when you pull away and returns your sentiment.

You have not been more certain about anything since you asked her to marry you all those years ago. There's still a lot to figure out; what you have is far from perfect, but it's what you want.

You've both tried the whole being-with-someone-else thing: it did not—can never, surpass being with the person you truly love.


End file.
